


lights earth with her silver

by scintilla10



Category: Bletchley Circle
Genre: F/F, Femslash, Original Character(s), Post-Canon, vague references to canon violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-08
Updated: 2013-11-08
Packaged: 2017-12-31 21:33:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1036627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scintilla10/pseuds/scintilla10
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When it was all over, Jean went home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lights earth with her silver

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amoama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amoama/gifts).



> Thanks awfully to laulan, who made me tea and beta-ed my story, and who is generally the best.

When it was all over, and Susan had gone back to her family, and Millie and Lucy were taking care of one another, Jean found herself sitting alone in the small kitchen in her flat, staring numbly at a rapidly cooling cup of tea. 

The pieces of her home, worn and familiar, seemed abruptly sad and lonely. Her copy of _The Murder of Roger Ackroyd_ was on the floor by her armchair, as was the previous day's newspaper, the crossword already completed. In the basket nearby was a sock she'd been attempting to knit for the last few months, but which hadn't yet progressed past the heel. Several unanswered letters were on the small table next to the chair: one was postmarked Scotland, one Canada, one Egypt. Near the toilet, her laundry was drying on hooks, and under the window was a bowl of apples.

What an easy puzzle she was to solve, she thought.

She heard the familiar noise of her neighbour coming up the stairs: the creak of the seventh step, the clink of keys, the familiar sound of 4B's hip nudging open the door in the flat above Jean's.

The young woman in 4B was named Maggie, and she had a bright lilting laugh and warm eyes. Sometimes Jean could hear snatches of her singing voice through the thin floors. Tonight, Maggie turned on her radio, just loud enough for Jean to hear the tinny opening strands of a song she could not have identified if her life depended on it.

She sighed and looked down at her teacup again. The way Maggie looked up at her when they met on the stairs reminded her of the time she'd spent working as a matron at a girls' school before the war. She was making a fool of herself by spending a single fleeting thought on Maggie's honey-brown eyes, or the way her dark hair curled at her neck, or her sweet singing voice lilting down the stairs.

It was painfully sobering to realize that one's life followed a pattern so dull and respectable that even the lowliest code breakers at Bletchley would have finished with it in a matter of minutes. Yet it was even worse coming to the realization that the patterns of one's own life hid how loneliness seemed to seep into a person's bones like the cold. That those patterns covered up the memories of well-worn tear-stained letters, long since burnt to ash, that Jean still knew by heart. That they hid the lingering sense of dissatisfaction with her own life, and the impossible things went through her head when a beautiful young woman met her eyes in the hallway and smiled at her.

Jean swallowed her tea and stood up. She hadn't allowed herself to be foolish for years, but she had a perfectly good bar of chocolate that she'd been saving and a sudden urgent desire not to be alone. 

"Why, hello," Maggie said, when she opened the door to see Jean standing there. "I'm glad you're here," she added. "I've been having a devil of a time with this sleeve. Could you?"

She held out the arm of her coat, which had recently snagged on something and was beginning to unravel. Jean took the scissors from Maggie's outstretched hand and carefully snipped the threads for her. 

"It wouldn't take long to fix that up," she said. "Good as new. If you need a hand, I'd be happy to help."

Maggie's smile was brilliant, and there were small crinkles at the corners of her eyes that made Jean realize that Maggie was older than she'd first thought. Jean didn't think she'd ever seen a person smile at her like that. 

"Aren't you an angel!" Maggie said. "I'm terrible at that sort of thing. Well, now you simply must come in."

Jean had imagined Maggie's flat would look something like Millie's: messy, bohemian, colourful, home-y. She was surprised to find that Maggie was insufferably neat, with books lined up spine-to-spine along the shelves and pretty curtains in the windows. 

"I'm a writer," Maggie said when she caught the direction of Jean's gaze. "I can't have any clutter. I've already got too much of that in my head." She smiled ruefully.

"A writer?" Jean said, surprised.

"Oh, yes," Maggie said, waving her hand. "Dreadful stuff. Kidnappings, brooding heroes, lost treasure, that sort of thing. Sometimes I even write fiction," she added.

She was smiling at her own joke, but the past few weeks still felt too raw for Jean to even fake a laugh. Maggie's expression dimmed a little, and Jean's stomach turned over.

"I'm sorry, dear," she said. "I'm awful company. I don't know why I decided to come up. Only -- "

"Sit," Maggie said with determination, and used both hands to push Jean bodily into a chair at the small table. The warmth and pressure of Maggie's hands on her shoulders made her heart speed up, and she suppressed a shiver. "You can tell me about it if you want. And if you don't want to, we can drink whiskey and discuss books. You work in the library, don't you? You'll find my taste in books putrid, I'm sure, but I'm willing to sacrifice your good opinion of my literary pursuits under these circumstances."

Maggie was still touching her. Jean looked up into Maggie's warm brown eyes and blinked. She could not remember the last time she had felt so adrift, so untethered. "These circumstances?" she repeated.

"I've noticed," Maggie said, "that over the past few weeks, you've been keeping very strange hours."

Jean couldn't stop herself from bristling.

"No, no," Maggie said, raising her hands in a gesture of peace. "It's entirely your business, and I don't mind a jot. But I think you must be exhausted after all those comings and goings. And sometimes a person needs someone else to take care of them for a little while."

Jean found herself settling back down in the chair, and allowing Maggie to pour her a glass of whiskey and relate the insensible plot of the pulp novel she was currently reading. 

"Dreadful," Jean said, shaking her head, but she couldn't help smiling.

Maggie smiled back. "It's nice to have you here," she said. "I can hear you sometimes, and I've been wanting to invite you up for dinner. Unfortunately, my casseroles are rather terribly mediocre."

"Well, there's time to remedy that," Jean said.

Maggie regarded her for a thoughtful moment. "Do you want to talk about it?" she asked.

"Oh, my dear," Jean said, and her heart welled up in her throat. "I appreciate the impulse, but I'm afraid it's not a secret I can share."

Except of course she already did share it, with Susan, Millie, and Lucy. Their rekindled friendship meant a great deal when Jean's life had for so many months revolved around a steady routine of church on Sundays, occasional weekends with her brother in Edinburgh, and correspondence with friends flung far afield. 

She felt the sting of loneliness in her own home more keenly now that she'd been reminded what it meant to have companionship. As well as a purpose.

Maggie must have sensed her mood, for she dropped to her knees in front of Jean's chair, compassion in her eyes. Yet her sudden proximity and her hand on Jean's thigh, made Jean draw in a shocked breath. She froze and her gaze flew to Maggie's, her eyes ever so warm and bright, and Jean knew instantly that everything she was feeling was written across her face.

"Oh," Maggie said softly, and she didn't sound shocked or dismayed or horrified. " _Oh._ "

Jean shivered. 

"Have you?" Maggie asked. Her voice was still whisper-soft. She reached up to trace her fingertips across Jean's cheekbone in a pattern Jean didn't think she'd ever be able to parse.

She shook her head, her heart pounding.

Maggie leaned up slowly, her eyes not leaving Jean's face. She curled her hand around the nape of Jean's neck to draw her down until their foreheads rested against one another and Jean could feel Maggie's breath on her cheek.

"I would like to," Jean whispered. "With you."

Maggie's smile was bright, and Jean felt herself smile back, helplessly.

"Ah, well, luckily, there's time to remedy that," Maggie said, and kissed her.


End file.
